The Ghosts of Greenwood Read Free Page A

raised her eyes to his. “I’ve been wondering if I should, dear John, and think that I must not. This was to be your holiday. Try and enjoy it while you can.”
    These words brought both gentlemen to attention. “Dulcie!” warned Lord Dorset. “I refuse to permit you to involve Livvy in your machinations. You must remember that she is—”
    “In a delicate condition!” concluded the Baroness, with an exasperated glance at her favorite nephew. “I wish you would stop acting as if Lavender is the first female ever to whelp.” Before Lord Dorset could retort, she returned her attention to the Chief Magistrate. “Frankly, John, I mistrust the manner of Sir Wesley Halliday’s death. Nor am I entertained by this sudden talk of ghosts.”
    Sir John adored her to distraction, no less now than in the days of their shared youth. Adoration, however, did not blind him to her faults. “When do you not scent a mystery?” he inquired. “The business seems straightforward enough to me.”
    “That’s put your foot in it,” said Dickon, an expression of amusement on his haughty, dissipated face.
    His foot, and a great deal of his ankle. “Little in this world is straightforward,” the Baroness announced, “and most especially not when it appears to be.” Moreover, she reminded Sir John, since he apparently chose not to recall it, she had already been of the utmost value to Bow Street in the solving of several complicated affairs. Furthermore, though a certain Chief Magistrate must be in his dotage, else he would not malign the validity of her hunches, she had not yet succumbed to senility. It was at this point, as Sir John was attempting reconciliatory overtures, and Dickon was endeavoring to restrain an untimely fit of mirth, that a third gentleman sauntered into the room.
    “Humbug!” the Chief Magistrate snapped.
    “Pray moderate your manner,” begged Dickon, who was enjoying himself immensely. Among Lord Dorset’s vices (or virtues, depending on one’s point of view) was a habit of deriving amusement from the follies of his fellow men. “Admittedly my aunt may be a trifle hot at hand—”
    “I fancy,” drawled the newcomer, “that Sir John referred not to my aunt’s little ways but to myself. I take it Uncle Max is not in residence? While the cat is absent— Not, dear Sir John, that I mean to compare you to a rodent! It is merely that Greenwood calls to mind country squires seducing parlor maids.”
    Lady Bligh gazed without appreciation upon her least favorite nephew. The Honorable Hubert Humboldt was a slender foppish gentleman with dark eyes, brown hair, lush side-whiskers and a bold moustache. “I take it you slipped past all the servants. Since you’re here, you might as well come in. You look like a coachman in that absurd coat.”
    “How ungracious of you, aunt! I, who am vastly more tolerant, shall refrain from commenting on the shocking effect of a red gown, green chair, and pink hair.” Hubert removed the offending many-caped great-coat, revealing a high tight cravat, exquisitely cut coat worn open to display a peach-colored waistcoat and snowy embroidered cambric shirt, skin-tight inexpressibles gathered into a wasp waist, and gleaming boots. “Nor will I berate you for not inviting me to this family gathering. Of course it was an oversight.” He minced across the room, settled carefully upon a sofa, and surveyed his surroundings, specifically a collection of navigational instruments that included mariner’s quadrant and octant, cross staff and standing weight, an Italian compass and a Persian astrolabe and a gigantic astronomical sextant dating back to the sixteenth century. “Fascinating! One cannot fail to be struck by Uncle Max’s taste.”
    Lady Bligh propped her dainty slippers on a velvet-covered stool. “Maximilian is in France. His assistance was required. I felt from the beginning that Wellington’s appointment was a blunder. It will be difficult to remove the Duke from his